Depth of Sin
by LeeT911
Summary: Kirika's point of view as she comes one step closer to becoming Noir. A short rendition of the swordfight scene from episode 24.


DISCLAIMER:  I don't own _Noir_ or any of its characters.  This is based loosely on the swordfight scene of episode 24 (Recurrence to Darkness), but it is not meant to be identical in all respects.  Feedback is appreciated!

Depth of Sin

_Noir_ fanfiction by LeeT911  (LeeT911@hotmail.com)

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The sun beats down mercilessly on my back. The wind gusts up playfully, bringing with it the smell of grapes and wine.  Whirlwinds stir the stagnant air in this forgotten arena, rippling my light clothing, momentarily lifting my concealing hair.  My eyes are losing their softness.

Chloe stands casually, a long sword held limply in her right hand.  Her stance is open, almost welcoming.  The sword is pointed down and outwards, her free hand resting lightly by her side.  She does not deceive me.

I know her every muscle is tensed, ready to explode into sudden action.  Mine are the same.  The sword fits neatly into my double grasp, becoming an extension of myself.  I raise it high, level with my face.  Reaching within myself, I draw upon the darkness.

She looks at me longingly; false sympathy fleetingly touching her features.  Then she is leaping, her blade turning easily to fall comfortably into her hands.  Her first strike is high, powerful.  My body shies away as my weapon moves up to parry, deflecting the blow downward, creating a small opening for me to thrust through.

She twists away from the predictable counter, bringing her sword around for another overhead strike.  I block again, this time with my grip reversed, and the blow is forceful enough to push me to one knee.  Just as quickly, my legs drive downwards, springing back to their full length as I slide behind my opponent.

She spins, one hand releasing the grip on her weapon for added balance.  Her blade leads the way, again high.  I wonder if it is a preference of hers.  Our swords lock, sliding down one another's cutting edges.  She completes her turn, and her free hand falls beside her other as she pulls all her weight into the struggle.  I do the same, feel the momentum change in her favour.  Hilts clang together as we grit our teeth and glare at each other.  There is murderous lust in her eyes.

I disengage myself.  She presses her advantage, advancing rapidly.  I fall back, head weaving from side to side as her repeated strikes are caught by my own blade.  After her third attack, she begins to tire.  The fourth is an instant too late.  I have time to dig my heels and reverse the flow.

She is not caught by my furious charge.  Our graceful dance is lost in the flash of steel.  There are no words to our conflict.  The battle rages silently, punctuated only by our own sharp breaths and the clash of weapons.  Her reactions are every bit as fast as mine.  Obvious feints are ignored.  Every parry is followed by a counter, which is in turned parried.  Her retreat is not hasty, seemingly not forced at all.  She falls back methodically, only her eyes betraying her intensity.  I maintain the pressure.  She does not waver.

In one sudden movement, I send my sword out to one side, my body pressing close to flank her on the other.  Her weapon flies out to meet mine.  Blades collide.  Instinctively, she draws to my side, falling into a crouch, with her weapon sweeping low.  I leap over her.  She shadows my movement, bringing her sword to bear, ready to impale me.  I avoid her, once again landing close.  A flurry of exchanged blows separates us. Weapons press together.  Our glares have not diminished.

This time we both withdraw. For once, I feel I am evenly matched.  The stress has begun to show.  A faint odor becomes discernable, that of sweat, evidence of our exertion.  I readjust my stance, ready myself to rush.  She grips her weapon tightly, tenses.  She charges.  I run out to meet her.

We strike simultaneously, neither of us connecting with anything less solid than steel.  I slip quickly to one side, avoiding another sidelong swipe.  My sword rises as I whip around, bringing my full force into one devastating slash.

She is not ready, put off balance by her last thrust.  Her hands come up, blade angled down,  directly in the path of mine.  However, there is no time for her to twist the weapon upward, to defect the blow.  She must depend on strength and position alone to hold me at bay.

The point of my blade strikes at the center of hers, digging into the etched groove, snapping the steel.  The broken piece flies away, clanging unceremoniously to the ground.  The sound is followed by frozen silence.

She breathes heavily, her eyes roving and her throat gulping, but she is otherwise immobile.  She sees the morbid face of death towering over her.  The tip of my sword rests just below the remains of her shattered blade, less than an inch from her vulnerable neck.  She wonders if I will kill her.

There is a long pause before either of us moves.  I pull away.  She drops the now useless hilt, standing up to congratulate me, to marvel at my ability, to show me her undying respect and admiration.  I drop my own weapon.  The joy of victory eludes me.

Chloe stands in awe before me.  I still see her as an enemy, as an obstacle.  Lethal rage continues to bite at me, demanding my attention.  I try to claw my way out of my wrath, out of this wellspring of fury.  In my dropped sword, I see a reflection of my deathly gaze.  There is no blood on my hands this day, yet I feel myself slipping deeper into sin.

I have won, but I feel no elation.  The eternal darkness surrounds me.  It always has.

Chloe smiles at me.  Soon, we will be Noir.

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END


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